Blue Flame
by vaqhma
Summary: After years of struggling with the loss of his family, Flynn learns what it means to become part of the Time Team, following the Salem Witch Trials.
1. Prologue

He sat alone in his kitchen, where it was cold and dark, head hanging between his hands. The house was quiet. Empty. There were no joyful giggles, no soft murmurs, no words of love.

Cold. Dark. Empty. All three of those terms seemed to describe his life now. Another failed attempt to find out who was responsible for the murder of his wife and daughter only served to remind him of that. Not that he had ever been able to forget.

He hadn't even been able to grieve the loss of his family. After the accusations, his mother and father-in-law had shunned him. Pushed him away. Blamed him for the death of their daughter and granddaughter.

He couldn't blame them. Even if he hadn't pulled the trigger himself, he failed to protect them. He was one of the NSA's best field agents, and yet he couldn't do something as simple as protect his family.

He thought he had had it all. A wife and daughter he adored and who brought him joy and happiness. A career he found immensely satisfying. Even though his own upbringing had been fraught with sadness after the death of the brother he had never met, he had been close to his in-laws. The shock that they would believe the accusations cut deep.

He had been at the top, only to have the rug pulled out from underneath him when he least expected it. And now he couldn't even find the men responsible for the death of his family. He felt cold and empty inside, except for the blue flame of rage that kept at a slow burn in his soul.

He fingered the weapon on the table, feeling its smooth lines and familiarity. It was one of his favorites. One that had been with him for years, had been by his side, mission after mission. Trustworthy. Faithful. Unlike him, it wouldn't fail him for this last mission.

He tossed back the last of his whiskey and blindly stared at his hands after setting his glass down. Bruised knuckles, streaks of blood he had missed after washing his hands off. Who had he become? He had tortured the last man for information, only to find another dead end. Another death at his hands. Another mark against his soul. He could feel the burn of Lorena's judgement. And that was the worst of it. He wasn't the man she once knew. That man was dead. The hands he examined belonged to someone else. Someone who shouldn't be on this earth any longer.

He grasped his weapon again. Began dragging it closer to himself as the heat of Lorena's gaze burned deeper into him.

The doorbell rang.

He jerked abruptly, immediately suspicious. This house had been empty for the last 6 months, since Lorena and Iris were killed. He had been taken into custody and escaped a few weeks later to begin the hunt. A forlorn For Sale sign dangled by one chain in the front. No one had wanted to buy a home where a family had been torn asunder. He had chosen his home for that very reason. To take the life of this stranger he had become in a place that had once been so familiar to him. A place where he had known happiness. No one should know he was here.

The doorbell rang again. He got up quietly, drawing his weapon with him, all of his reflexes that had been trained into him flowing smoothly, like the trained operative he had become. He took a glimpse through the blinds.

A young woman stood at his doorstep, with a well-loved and worn journal in hand. Pages were sticking out every which way. She tapped her foot unconsciously. Something was off about her appearance. As if she had tried to dress in whatever today's fashion style was, but had just missed the mark. Oddly enough, it was the way she dressed that relaxed his guard. Any trained operative would have been well-versed in how to blend in and that included fashion. This woman was either clueless or a new recruit. Either situation could be easily handled.

He swung the door open wide just as she was reaching for the doorbell for a third time, startling her. Then she glanced up at him and gasped in surprise, her eyes widening as she drew her hand to her mouth. She was surprisingly tall, just a few inches shy of his own 6'4" which took him aback. She had shoulder length waves of hair, the color of a rich, deep chocolate, matched by the color of her eyes. There was something about the shape of her eyes and her jawline that struck him as familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"I didn't think it'd be that simple," she muttered to herself. He was immediately on guard again with that odd statement, carrying his weapon just out sight, behind the door.

"Can I help you?"

She peered up at him, nodding to herself. "Are you Garcia Flynn?"

His heart stopped for a beat of alarm and he immediately drew his weapon. "Who's asking?"

The stranger on his doorstep made a slight squeak at the sight of the gun and immediately held up her hands, one still holding the journal. "Right, right. Not so simple then," she muttered to herself.

"Kindly stop muttering to yourself and explain what you're doing here and what you want with Garcia Flynn," He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the house, keeping his gun trained on her as she let out a squeal.

"Sorry! Sorry. It's just a bad habit of mine. I'm sorry. My…parents always tell me I need to stop talking to myself. That I need to hold conversations with real people, not just in my own head. Even though the conversations in my head are far more interesting that most conversations I have with real people." She stared at him intently as she talked, as if she was taking in every detail of his appearance and storing it away in her memory.

Exasperated, he repeated himself, "Who are you and what are you doing here." At the very least, it was obvious she wasn't an operative. Maybe she had come to inquire about the house.

"Right! Yes! That! Well…. My name is Amy. I'm looking for Garcia Flynn, who I presume is you. At least you look extraordinarily like him. Younger than I was expe-" He raised an expectant eyebrow as she started to go off on another tangent and she abruptly cut herself off. At least she was trainable. He might be here for the next three days before she got to the point otherwise.

"Sorry, I get distracted easily."

"I gathered that," he said drolly.

"This is my first time. My mom, Lucy Preston, she sent me here to help you."

His eyebrow raised even higher. "Who is this Lucy Preston and how does she presume to render me aid through you?"

She offered him the journal, which he set aside. "You don't know her. She doesn't know you. At least not yet. But she knows what happened to your family and she knows you're innocent. I know you're innocent too for that matter. We know who's responsible though."

Every single nerve ending flared to life as he grasped her tightly by the shoulders and growled, "What did you just say?"

Her eyes were wide and frightened. She nodded to the journal, "It's all in there."

He released her suddenly, causing her to gasp again and picked up the journal. A color photograph fluttered out of the journal, catching his eye. Captured for all eternity was a beautiful woman, clearly in the prime of her life, somewhere in her mid 40s. Next to her was a younger version of Amy who was clearly a near carbon copy of her mother, except that she towered over her mother in the photo, despite being in her teens. And… He squinted at the man in the photo, then glared up at her.

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull. Clearly you or someone you know has some great photo manipulation skills, bu-"

She cut him off this time, staring steadily into his eyes. She didn't ramble, she didn't mutter. She quietly uttered the one word that was sure to bring his attention to a laser focus.

"Rittenhouse."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 _Present time:_

"Can I?"

Lucy's voice filtered through the haze of his memories, startling him out his reverie. She was asking if she could trust him. A year ago he would have said no, even knowing what was written in her journal, even after having spent two weeks with his, their, daughter. But now? Could she trust him?

He nodded deeply.

She gave a slight acknowledging nod. "Okay."

He had some difficulty suspending his disbelief that she would trust him so easily after everything he had put her through. Once he had accepted the possibility of time travel, the mere existence of their daughter had sent him further down the path of self-hatred.

* * *

 _Two years ago:_

"I'm your daughter."

He scoffed in disbelief at the outrageous statement after he asked her how she could possibly know so much information about Rittenhouse. Hidden in his depths was a fathomless well of pain and guilt he refused to acknowledge. She couldn't be his daughter, therefore he hadn't betrayed Lorena and Iris.

Then he stilled, as she continued on. Telling him things about his life no one could have possibly known. The love he had had for his mother. The depression she had fought constantly after the death of a brother he had never known. The many hospitalizations. The guilt that rode him as a child, even into adulthood, knowing he would never be enough to fill the hole left behind by his brother, never enough to bring her happiness. The pills. Finding his mother lifeless after coming home from school one day. The note she had left behind for him. The note he had never told anyone about. That he had burned after reading.

No one could have possibly known that information. The silent rage within him pulsed higher, fueled by the pain and guilt.

Amy watched him solemnly, seeing the conflict of emotions spill out of his soul and across his face.

"You never wanted me to feel the same way as you did growing up," she said softly, placing a gentle hand over his. "You were open about everything you went through, in order to make sure you never did the same to me. My entire life, you told me wonderful stories about Iris, but never laid any guilt on me. You refused to let your mourning affect my life. You made me feel cherished. The only grief I have ever felt was over the fact that I never had a chance to meet my older sister. You were and are a wonderful father."

A stifled growl driven by the injustices served to those close to him in his life tore from his soul. He clenched his jaw.

She continued, despite the flaying his soul was taking over her words.

"You told me to come back to this time. Why I had to. What you were planning to do," she nodded to his weapon, set just within his reach on the end table. Tears filled her eyes.

He closed his eyes.

Her voice wavered. "I couldn't let you."

"You need to go. Now."

"Will you be okay?" Unspoken were the words, _Will you be here for me?_

Eyes still closed, jaw still clenched, he gave her a tight nod.

She rose quietly. "I'll be back tomorrow." She laid a palm on his shoulder and gave him a warm squeeze, as if she would have rather gathered him in her arms for a comforting hug.

He couldn't handle talk of the future at the moment. He couldn't stomach the mere concept of existing. It was taking all of his focus to concentrate on the once simple task of breathing.

Amy left him at the table and silently slipped out the front door.

Once alone, surrounded only by his ghosts, he let out a roar of fury. Glass shattered as he flung the bottle of whiskey at the wall. Then the levee that had been holding back his emotions since Lorena and Iris's deaths broke free and he wept.

* * *

He sat in a dark corner of his empty living room, staring at the stain left behind by the whiskey on the wall, worn out by the flood of emotions. A daughter. From the future. He snorted, humorlessly. If he were to believe her, this Lucy had sent her, their, daughter to his present for the express purpose of giving him her journal. To help him wreak his vengeance upon Rittenhouse for the destruction of his family. Somehow this Lucy was unable to meet with him face to face, something about the space-time continuum preventing her from being able to travel back to a time when she had existed. Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. And yet...

He fingered the worn edges of the photograph. Amy was the spitting image of her mother, and yet was something about her that struck him, as if there was an echo of familiarity. He couldn't pinpoint any one thing in particular. It was in the shape of her jaw, the pugnacious tilt of her chin when she set her mind to convincing him. The right-sided tilt of her smirk when she was clearly making fun of him in silence. All of these little details that mirrored him, combined with information no one living could have possibly known, lent themselves to ironclad case in her favor. To ironclad evidence of his betrayal to his wife and daughter.

He cringed away from the thought and shoved it behind his newly reinforced levee. Could he afford to not follow through with this lead? Although he still couldn't bring himself to believe in time travel, something deep within him tugged his soul at the possibility of losing Amy before she even existed.

He had failed one daughter. He couldn't fail another.

* * *

 _Present time:_

He rushed to reload the rifle in the pandemonium. _Damned antiques._ He shot the man rushing up to him and turned quickly at Rufus's shout.

His heart constricted in his throat as he saw the judge slash down at Lucy with a knife. He quickly sighted down his rifle, praying for his aim to be true. He couldn't lose her now. Not when he had really and truly found her.

He let out half a breath and fired. The remainder exhaled in a sigh of relief as the judge went down. He swallowed his heart back down, literally diving back into the chaos to protect her and bring her home safely.

He didn't breathe fully again until they were back in the lifeboat. Funny, how two years ago, the mere act of breathing was a chore. He didn't feel as if he had been able to draw in a full breath since the loss of his wife and daughter until Lucy had asked if she could trust him. A fragment of his heart splintered for her as he comforted her while buckling her harness. Splintered for what he knew she was going through with her mother, for the shock he knew she would be facing when they returned to the bunker. If he could shield her from the pain, he would have, but he had no idea how. He had yet to find a way to shield himself from his own pain.

All of his protective instincts flared to life when he saw her stiffen after exiting the lifeboat. Rage sparked as he fought to tamp it back down and released himself from the harness. Without further thought, he wrapped an arm around Lucy as he stepped out of the lifeboat, nestling her into his side, carefully avoiding her injury, and guided her down the steps. He barely managed to stifle a glare at Wyatt, carefully concealing it as a smirk instead as they walked past. The man had just gotten his wife back and was staring at Lucy as though she was the last drop of water in the desert. He hadn't noticed her injury yet. Flynn bristled inside, knowing what he would have given for a second chance with Lorena.

He hadn't gotten a second chance with Lorena, and a second chance would never come again. He had meant it when he had told Lucy he could never return to Lorena and Iris after the events that had unfolded at his hands. But he had a new chance at life and he was going to grab that chance with everything he had and hold on for dear life.


End file.
